


Forget Me Not

by selectural



Category: Fate/Apocrypha, Fate/Grand Order, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Character Study, Crushes, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Trans Male Character, but it isn't really addressed, mordred has daddy issues, seriously tooth rotting fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-25 20:47:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18171272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/selectural/pseuds/selectural
Summary: Mordred feels some things. Fran tries to help.





	Forget Me Not

Having lived the life that he did and having died the death of a traitor, Mordred couldn’t recall a time that he’d felt joy. Hell, he couldn’t even recall an actual moment of true happiness. He’d never felt comfort, or relief, or warmth or fondness. He’d never experienced a true moment of peace, or a moment of laughter. His “happiness” was all high regards and infatuation.

His life was not comparable to any kind of harmonious ballad, a melody fit to ring through the halls of a grand cathedral. It was rather a sharp cacophony, a discord of thin strings strummed by the raw and bleeding fingers of a withering musician. Being the bastard child of a king likely has something to do with it, he’s come to realize. Never having a nurturing childhood seems to have a hand in his downfall.

From the moment since his birth, he had been lost in a shadow. A cold shadow, cast by the jaggedly cut slab of marble his father had called a throne. Edges sharp and golden, not dissimilar to the embers he burned and the flames that choked the city of Camelot. Iron wrought and curled over the edges, like the curling smoke dissipating into the sky on the field he’d died on.

He vividly remembers the crimson of the trampled corpses, the stains on his blade as he cut down everyone who stood in his way. He remembers the weight of his armor as he parted a sea of blood, and he remembers the burning rage he felt as he caught sight of the silhouette of his father, broken and beaten on the ground, slender fingers still holding onto his legendary blade. 

_How does it feel?_ He had thought. _Now, do you understand? Here, on this battlefield where you’ve lost everything, can you now understand the weight I’ve carried from the first breath I ever took?_

The sacrilegious blade he carries doesn’t speak for the righteous, nor the honorable. It doesn’t speak in the name of those who have done right or wrong. Rather, it speaks for the ideals of a thousand victims, and roars the valor of a martyr.

*****

The glistening mirror of the lake reflects the silhouettes of thousands of flowers, a swaying rainbow of color glowing under the gold of the sun. Brilliant blues and teals paint the cloudless sky. The emerald green of the grass is hidden only by a myriad of flowers, a kaleidoscope of different shades and hues, illuminated by the vivid sunlight.

Standing alone in the field of flowers is a gazebo with a roof of deep mahogany, arches of wood displaying a row of glistening plants. It’s under the safety of the gazebo that Mordred sits, watching the field of flowers. At least, he tells himself that it’s the flowers that he’s watching. He tries to convince himself that it isn’t the girl in white amidst the blossoms that has his attention.

The darkness of Frankenstein’s veil is contrasted by the intensity of her cherry pink hair, parted to cover both of her eyes. She sits amongst the flowers on her knees, every once in awhile reaching a hand out to delicately pluck a bulb. She begins a small collection, picking a flower and adding it to her bouquet.

Mordred grins. _Cute._ His hand leaves the fence as he begins to make his way towards her, legs moving of their own accord. He doesn’t even realize he’s moved until he’s already halfway there, eyes focusing only on the bright white of her dress. He almost stops when he realizes he’s getting closer, tripping over his feet as he thinks frantically, _Fuck! What the fuck do you think you’re doing?!_ He contemplates turning around to avoid disturbing her, but then she catches sight of him, inciting another onslaught of curses in his mind. He isn’t quite sure why he’s so nervous. He isn’t a fucking coward, after all.

With a bit more hesitance than he’d like to admit, Mordred continues walking, being careful not to step on any bulbs. He slows a bit as he reaches Fran, pausing nervously as she looks up at him. Shit, he should’ve thought this through.

“Can I, uh…” Mordred gestures loosely, his face flushed. “Join you?”

“Uuu…” Fran says. She gives him a small smile and gently shifts to the side, patting the ground next to her as an invitation. Mordred’s heart flip flops (he isn’t sure why, maybe servants can have heart problems?) and he crouches next to her, adjusting so that he’s sitting with his legs crossed.

While Fran returns to her flower picking, Mordred’s mind moves a million miles a minute. What is he thinking, disturbing her? And why is he concerned in the first place? He normally never cares about how others feel about him, so why start now? And with Fran of all people? 

As his thoughts clutter his mind, he finds himself asking more questions. What if he accidentally does something to make her hate him? What if she already does hate him but is too kind to tell him to fuck off? Why-

“Uunh...uuu…!” Fran interrupts his thoughts as she bops him on the nose gently with the tip of her finger. He looks back to her and meets her obscured eyes, until they’re replaced by dozens of forget-me-not petals tickling his nose. “Uhn…” she says.

Mordred blinks in surprise, moving his head past the flowers to give Fran a questioning look. “What are these for?” he asks.

Fran shifts on her knees and gestures with the flowers again. “Y...yo...u. F-For…you…” she says, furrowing her eyebrows as she concentrates. “M...Mor…Mord…red...”

Something in Mordred’s chest melts. His face feels uncomfortably hot all of a sudden, and he distantly asks himself why, but Fran’s small smile is all that is occupying his attention right now. Her smile, her flush, the kind look in her half-hidden eyes. Every small thing he loves about her slowly trickles into his mind until it’s all just Fran, Fran, Fran.

It hits him all at once - a burning feeling, but not burning like rage. It’s softer, kinder. It lifts him up and makes him feel warm, happy, _loved_. All of a sudden he isn’t the bastard child of a king. All of a sudden he’s more than his bloody past. It all dissolves in favor of Fran.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until Fran cups his face with a gloved hand and gently wipes a stray tear away. Even though they’re covered by her hair, her eyes seem to shine, and she smiles wider than he’s ever seen her smile before.

“...L...Lo...Low...L-Love…” she says, her smile unwavering.

Mordred chokes out a laugh and reaches up, gently resting his hand on top of hers. “Love...” he repeats, and it’s all that needs to be said.


End file.
